A few doses into the game, I am feeling way better. Not zippy by any means, but better.
I haul myself to work the next day, hoping to be able to spend a decent amount of time catching up and moving on. I will not flog myself if I tank at 2 pm. Hopefully none of my uptight colleagues will either.
As luck would have it, it is a day of full on mayhem. A blood and guts warfare kind of day. The big guns are drawn, the piles of follow up on my desk get higher and deeper.
It is nearly 6 when I schlepp to my car.
I get a text from Sandy, J's first marital victim.
"Are we still on for Friday?" and then assuming that the answer is yes, "Where should we meet?"
I hate not to answer right away and make her sweat it out, but I only peaked at my phone while sitting at the 3 miute light near my building. The one that gets my blood boiling at least three nights a week, especially when a rescue vehicle comes at the last minute, changes the game and the three minute egg timer gets turned on its head for another round of "Let's see who gets caught in the drive-by shooting tonight."
I drive home thinking about places central to us both. I had thought to suggest that I meet her at her house, and have a chance to give at least one of the girls a much overdue squeeze before we leave, but think better of that.
There would be a need to sit and chat with Moira or Abby - and then Sandy would surely suggest a cocktail while we talk. And that could concievably turn to two. And then we might never leave. And then if the evening turned out to be more uncomfortable than anticipated, it would just be weird to be in her house.
I think the medication has warped the quadrant of the brain responsible for social graces. This is truly a bitchy, non-commitmal way to think.
Nonetheless, I suggest a location just about the same distance from both of our houses. It is a quaint little town with lots of places to go...whether her proclivities lean more toward wine bars and eclectic menus or brew pubs with dart boards and big screen TVs.
I make a suggestion that we meet at the same place where I'd met the girls just before I fell into the grips of The Plague.
She asks where exactly it is. I tell her exactly how to find it.
She asks about the dress code. Admits she's been out of circulation for far too long.
I tell her what I intend to wear. I refrain from suggesting that she go shopping for something post Y2K.
And then, in case she needs to ask...I tell her she will recognize my full throttle red winter coat. She could pick me out of a crowd in Calcutta.
She signs off with me as I log into Facebook to check the social scene. She tells me she is looking forward to getting to knowthe woman who made a better decision about J. than she did.
She has no idea how badly my next decisions have turned out, but I have to agree, I am, oddly, really looking forward to spending a few hours sorting out the facts and myths about Sandy for myself and perhaps making a new friend.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
Love is the Drug
The next morning I momentarily consider going into work.
One moment upright on the edge of the bed dashes any hope of a productive day at the office.
I am as weak as a kitten.
I have periodic feverish moments when my body seems intent on reminding me of the climate in Hell.
I sound like I have eaten a box of tacks.
My head is brimming with plaster o' Paris.
I lay back down and text my assistant and my boss. I don't even wait for a reply.
At one point, I manage to get up and conquer the stairs to the first floor where I have, against all logic, left the cold medicine I need to survive.
Once I've downed the atrocious concoction and stopped dry heaving, I call the Executive Assistant in the C-Suite at work. She is my biggest customer right now and I am sure she is mad as a hornet that I have vanished without a trace. I touch base - she is very sympathetic - and she asks about my holiday...and before she can do any digging, I tell her that I have to tell her something. I need to tell her about Scott. She was always a fan - mostly because of the notable happiness it brought to me. She is devastated for me. Asks a lot of questions. Tells me about an uncannily similar thing that happened the prior year when the day after Christmas her boyfriend dropped abruptly and mysteriously out of her life. No explanation, no contact. Nothing.
Is there some secret club that does this?
She tells me that 3 months later he reappeared just as abruptly and with just as little explanation. They have been together ever since, but it is not the same. How could it ever be?
And I agree with her. If Scott were to come begging and pleading tomorrow, wearing a hair shirt and pledging his undying love, how on Earth would I react? I can never ever let myself love him like that again. No more reckless abandon. I could never completely love him without question. Why bother at all? It is futile to even hope I ever see him again. No explanation will help the matter. No reconciliation will be complete. Again, why bother at all?
By the end of the conversation I am far worse than I have felt in days. I am sure I am going to die. I am sure I have The Plague. I am sure I am going to be found dead in my house with the cats having eaten off my fingertips so that I have to be identified by dental records.
I call my doctor. I explain to the nurse that I have no idea what my temperature is but I am surely cooking from the inside out, like as in a microwave oven. I have horrible cold symptoms, am weak and floppy and could no sooner come in for an appointment than I could land a DC-10 in my backyard.
A few minutes later, the nurse calls back and says that the doctor will call in a prescription. Amoxycillin, a strong dose, to be picked up at my local CVS. Amen.
I thank her profusely. But she is not done.
She tells me that if I am not feeling better very soon that I will HAVE to come in, and should schedule a physical because it's been ages since I've had labs drawn. (Yaddd yadda yadda...) And as a parting blow to my psyche, she tells me that I should be aware that the drug will in fact weaken the effects of my birth control pill and until my next cycle I should take extra precautions and use condoms or some other equally redundant form of birth control or I very well may find myself pregnant.
Thank you, Nurse Happy for reminding me that I am sleeping alone.
Now I have to figure out how to schlepp my carcass down the street to the CVS. Another bitter reminder that I am no one's business. *sigh*
One moment upright on the edge of the bed dashes any hope of a productive day at the office.
I am as weak as a kitten.
I have periodic feverish moments when my body seems intent on reminding me of the climate in Hell.
I sound like I have eaten a box of tacks.
My head is brimming with plaster o' Paris.
I lay back down and text my assistant and my boss. I don't even wait for a reply.
At one point, I manage to get up and conquer the stairs to the first floor where I have, against all logic, left the cold medicine I need to survive.
Once I've downed the atrocious concoction and stopped dry heaving, I call the Executive Assistant in the C-Suite at work. She is my biggest customer right now and I am sure she is mad as a hornet that I have vanished without a trace. I touch base - she is very sympathetic - and she asks about my holiday...and before she can do any digging, I tell her that I have to tell her something. I need to tell her about Scott. She was always a fan - mostly because of the notable happiness it brought to me. She is devastated for me. Asks a lot of questions. Tells me about an uncannily similar thing that happened the prior year when the day after Christmas her boyfriend dropped abruptly and mysteriously out of her life. No explanation, no contact. Nothing.
Is there some secret club that does this?
She tells me that 3 months later he reappeared just as abruptly and with just as little explanation. They have been together ever since, but it is not the same. How could it ever be?
And I agree with her. If Scott were to come begging and pleading tomorrow, wearing a hair shirt and pledging his undying love, how on Earth would I react? I can never ever let myself love him like that again. No more reckless abandon. I could never completely love him without question. Why bother at all? It is futile to even hope I ever see him again. No explanation will help the matter. No reconciliation will be complete. Again, why bother at all?
By the end of the conversation I am far worse than I have felt in days. I am sure I am going to die. I am sure I have The Plague. I am sure I am going to be found dead in my house with the cats having eaten off my fingertips so that I have to be identified by dental records.
I call my doctor. I explain to the nurse that I have no idea what my temperature is but I am surely cooking from the inside out, like as in a microwave oven. I have horrible cold symptoms, am weak and floppy and could no sooner come in for an appointment than I could land a DC-10 in my backyard.
A few minutes later, the nurse calls back and says that the doctor will call in a prescription. Amoxycillin, a strong dose, to be picked up at my local CVS. Amen.
I thank her profusely. But she is not done.
She tells me that if I am not feeling better very soon that I will HAVE to come in, and should schedule a physical because it's been ages since I've had labs drawn. (Yaddd yadda yadda...) And as a parting blow to my psyche, she tells me that I should be aware that the drug will in fact weaken the effects of my birth control pill and until my next cycle I should take extra precautions and use condoms or some other equally redundant form of birth control or I very well may find myself pregnant.
Thank you, Nurse Happy for reminding me that I am sleeping alone.
Now I have to figure out how to schlepp my carcass down the street to the CVS. Another bitter reminder that I am no one's business. *sigh*
Thursday, December 27, 2012
That's Not Funny, That's Sick
The next day, I get out of bed feeling kind of yucky, but willing to brave the office. I am sure it is just a winning combination of wine hangover (the worst kind) and lingering cold.
I am dead wrong.
By 10 am I am convinced I am going to be found dead at my desk.
By 11 the germophobe in the office is dusting the vicinity with Lysol.
By noon I am telling people I'll be leaving shortly.
By 12:30 I am in my car and not at all sure I should be driving. I wonder if there is a law against driving without the will to live.
I get home and get into bed. I wake up 5 hours later. In the dark. With the cats looking at me funny.
I feed them. I shower. I return to bed.
My alarm goes off. I have a better chance at winning an Olympic medal than I do of getting myself into the office. I feed the cats. I take cold medicine and Advil. I get back in bed.
I wake 3 hours later. Repeat.
I call Charlotte. She is completely horrified at the sound of my voice, which between the cold and the under utilization, sounds much like that of a person who has just eaten ground glass. She wants to know what she can do for me.
There is nothing I tell her, but in my despairing sense that Death is waiting at the next turn, I am again blue about Scott.
There is a sense of loneliness that comes with knowing that you are no one's responsibility. That I am, in return, no one's "in case of emergency" person. Sure Charlotte cares about me. Always always always. But it is different when it is your partner.
I manage to email my boss in a moment of clarity and tell him I am not sure what the next day will bring. He tells me not to worry, to take care of myself and feel better.
The kindness from a near stranger almost brings me to tears. No one to own the responsibility, so strangers step in.
I feel a tear on my cheek even as I nod off in a haze of cold medicine, hoping all of this will pass by morning.
I am dead wrong.
By 10 am I am convinced I am going to be found dead at my desk.
By 11 the germophobe in the office is dusting the vicinity with Lysol.
By noon I am telling people I'll be leaving shortly.
By 12:30 I am in my car and not at all sure I should be driving. I wonder if there is a law against driving without the will to live.
I get home and get into bed. I wake up 5 hours later. In the dark. With the cats looking at me funny.
I feed them. I shower. I return to bed.
My alarm goes off. I have a better chance at winning an Olympic medal than I do of getting myself into the office. I feed the cats. I take cold medicine and Advil. I get back in bed.
I wake 3 hours later. Repeat.
I call Charlotte. She is completely horrified at the sound of my voice, which between the cold and the under utilization, sounds much like that of a person who has just eaten ground glass. She wants to know what she can do for me.
There is nothing I tell her, but in my despairing sense that Death is waiting at the next turn, I am again blue about Scott.
There is a sense of loneliness that comes with knowing that you are no one's responsibility. That I am, in return, no one's "in case of emergency" person. Sure Charlotte cares about me. Always always always. But it is different when it is your partner.
I manage to email my boss in a moment of clarity and tell him I am not sure what the next day will bring. He tells me not to worry, to take care of myself and feel better.
The kindness from a near stranger almost brings me to tears. No one to own the responsibility, so strangers step in.
I feel a tear on my cheek even as I nod off in a haze of cold medicine, hoping all of this will pass by morning.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Out and About Once More
Joy picks me up at 5 pm to drive us both to the restaurant where we are meeting the rest of the girls.
It is Sunday so most places will be quiet enough to talk. I need to catch everyone up at one time on all that details of all that has transpired since I first told them anything about me and Scott.
We order wine. Kate brings me roses. I take a deep breath. Joy says, "Ok, tell us everything from the beginning. Last kiss, last embrace, last time in bed."
I start with the weekend just before the storm. I finish with Scott mailing my stuff. It had arrived earlier in the week. All but one print that he forgot to send. All of it haphazardly thrown in a box, one or two things broken. Underwear mingled with bras. Makeup and hair products not sealed so as to protect anything from them. Shoes, pajamas, clothes all in a heap.
And no note.
Would it have taken so much effort to scribble something to make the whole episode less hideous? My hands were shaking as it was. I was crushed that there was no note. Not even a hastily unsigned, "Hope you are well," however insincere. Asshole.
The girls sit in stunned silence. There is an occasional question. They all reach the conclusion that he's nuts. Or has another woman. Or that he's figured out in the last round of the fight that he's gay.
I tell them that I remain baffled, am willing to believe anything. But on the advice of Charlotte, I am determined not to waste one more minute of my life trying to figure out what the reasons are behind how and why Scott broke up with me. He clearly has a huge investment in me not knowing, so it must be something heinous. And every minute I waste trying to figure out the pieces to the puzzle is another minute I am not devoted to getting myself happy.
So lets go! Let's visit a few high end establishments tonight, enjoy some great food, some outstanding wine and each other's unparallelled company.
I get a message from Christopher while we are out. He's heard that a few of us are trying to get a sorority gathering together. Can he be an honorary guest?
I respond that we'd like to get together in the Spring but can not even begin to land on a month let alone an actual date to do so.
And then I feel compelled to explain Christopher and a few other kind hearted men from school who have been on my team of first responders these past few weeks. My girlfriends are encouraged that I am going to easily find the attention from men that I seek and will be in the game again shortly. I am almost ready to entertain that thought.
I message Christopher when I get home. I re-read my reply to him from the bar and think it makes very little sense out of context. So I clarify.
And he writes, "What if I just come up and you and I hang out together? Just us?"
And I reply that that would be great. Let's.
And for the first time in weeks, I turn out the lights and go to sleep with a smile on my face.
It is Sunday so most places will be quiet enough to talk. I need to catch everyone up at one time on all that details of all that has transpired since I first told them anything about me and Scott.
We order wine. Kate brings me roses. I take a deep breath. Joy says, "Ok, tell us everything from the beginning. Last kiss, last embrace, last time in bed."
I start with the weekend just before the storm. I finish with Scott mailing my stuff. It had arrived earlier in the week. All but one print that he forgot to send. All of it haphazardly thrown in a box, one or two things broken. Underwear mingled with bras. Makeup and hair products not sealed so as to protect anything from them. Shoes, pajamas, clothes all in a heap.
And no note.
Would it have taken so much effort to scribble something to make the whole episode less hideous? My hands were shaking as it was. I was crushed that there was no note. Not even a hastily unsigned, "Hope you are well," however insincere. Asshole.
The girls sit in stunned silence. There is an occasional question. They all reach the conclusion that he's nuts. Or has another woman. Or that he's figured out in the last round of the fight that he's gay.
I tell them that I remain baffled, am willing to believe anything. But on the advice of Charlotte, I am determined not to waste one more minute of my life trying to figure out what the reasons are behind how and why Scott broke up with me. He clearly has a huge investment in me not knowing, so it must be something heinous. And every minute I waste trying to figure out the pieces to the puzzle is another minute I am not devoted to getting myself happy.
So lets go! Let's visit a few high end establishments tonight, enjoy some great food, some outstanding wine and each other's unparallelled company.
I get a message from Christopher while we are out. He's heard that a few of us are trying to get a sorority gathering together. Can he be an honorary guest?
I respond that we'd like to get together in the Spring but can not even begin to land on a month let alone an actual date to do so.
And then I feel compelled to explain Christopher and a few other kind hearted men from school who have been on my team of first responders these past few weeks. My girlfriends are encouraged that I am going to easily find the attention from men that I seek and will be in the game again shortly. I am almost ready to entertain that thought.
I message Christopher when I get home. I re-read my reply to him from the bar and think it makes very little sense out of context. So I clarify.
And he writes, "What if I just come up and you and I hang out together? Just us?"
And I reply that that would be great. Let's.
And for the first time in weeks, I turn out the lights and go to sleep with a smile on my face.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Christmas Cheer from the Most Unexpected Places
Sunday morning and a head full of snot. How nice. More Alka-Seltzer please. I have plans with the girls. No time to be sick.
I spend the day finishing wrapping the gifts I've brought into the house, ordering more on line and attempting to assemble an outfit for the evening. I've lost so much weight that even the pants I bought two days ago are feeling loose. They'd fit so well. Now I look like I have a load in my pants instead of looking bootylicious like I'd been shooting for.
The radio stations have already begun the constant, endless 24 hour playing of Christmas carols. I am not sure who composes the play lists, but it's been 3 days and I want to blow my brains out.
Dominic the Donkey? Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer? I'm Gettin' Nothin' for Christmas? Seriously? Hello, not doing squah-tah for my Christmas spirit!And in fact, making it seem a little more anemic than I'd hoped.
After hearing 17 different and equally grating versions of "Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart" I come unhinged and take to Facebook.
"If I have to listen to one more artist whine about how last Christmas they gave their heart to some undeserving louse I may come unglued."
And the fun begins.
One girlfriend writes, "I hear you! What makes me come completely unglued are those cheesy Kay Jewelers commercials. Do they play them in the East? So annoying!"
And I write, "They do! The ones about every effin' kiss beginning with Kay! Kay's a slutty little trollop if you ask me!"
One girlfriend laments about the car commercials where the dewy eyed housewife is presented with a luxury sports car with a big red ribbon on it. So clueless she didn't see it pulling into the driveway?
Another girlfriend posts a YouTube satire of those commercials wherein the housewife is at first complaining about the cheap earrings the husband gave her and quickly turns into a dewy eyed housewife when she sees the car with the ribbon on it. She joyfully gets in to take the new car for a spin and it explodes at the end of the block. It ends with the song about last Christmas giving away your heart, incredulously. We are all commenting.
And then Christopher wryly comments, "Hey, do any of you ladies know a good jewelry store?"
And I fire back "Tiffany. Kay's a dirty ho."
And the games have truly begun. I am beginning to think that I might actually survive this Christmas season.
I spend the day finishing wrapping the gifts I've brought into the house, ordering more on line and attempting to assemble an outfit for the evening. I've lost so much weight that even the pants I bought two days ago are feeling loose. They'd fit so well. Now I look like I have a load in my pants instead of looking bootylicious like I'd been shooting for.
The radio stations have already begun the constant, endless 24 hour playing of Christmas carols. I am not sure who composes the play lists, but it's been 3 days and I want to blow my brains out.
Dominic the Donkey? Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer? I'm Gettin' Nothin' for Christmas? Seriously? Hello, not doing squah-tah for my Christmas spirit!And in fact, making it seem a little more anemic than I'd hoped.
After hearing 17 different and equally grating versions of "Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart" I come unhinged and take to Facebook.
"If I have to listen to one more artist whine about how last Christmas they gave their heart to some undeserving louse I may come unglued."
And the fun begins.
One girlfriend writes, "I hear you! What makes me come completely unglued are those cheesy Kay Jewelers commercials. Do they play them in the East? So annoying!"
And I write, "They do! The ones about every effin' kiss beginning with Kay! Kay's a slutty little trollop if you ask me!"
One girlfriend laments about the car commercials where the dewy eyed housewife is presented with a luxury sports car with a big red ribbon on it. So clueless she didn't see it pulling into the driveway?
Another girlfriend posts a YouTube satire of those commercials wherein the housewife is at first complaining about the cheap earrings the husband gave her and quickly turns into a dewy eyed housewife when she sees the car with the ribbon on it. She joyfully gets in to take the new car for a spin and it explodes at the end of the block. It ends with the song about last Christmas giving away your heart, incredulously. We are all commenting.
And then Christopher wryly comments, "Hey, do any of you ladies know a good jewelry store?"
And I fire back "Tiffany. Kay's a dirty ho."
And the games have truly begun. I am beginning to think that I might actually survive this Christmas season.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Strung Out and Stranded
I make the most of Saturday.
I clean. I cut branches. I get my chainsaw serviced. I go to the bank. The dry cleaners. The tailor. The liquor store.
I also do some more Christmas shopping. I am nearly done. Let's keep going!
That evening, as my cold starts to get the better of me, I walk to CVS to get some nasal spray and cold medicine. I need to get rid of this nastiness, and quick. I am headed out with The Girls on Sunday night.
Later that night, after a short nap, I decide to put on a Christmas movie and wrap all the gifts I have purchased. I'll start with the gifts for my office, since they take some assembling.
And as I sit on the floor at the far end of my living room to wrap the 8 gifts for my direct reports plus one for the assistant I share, I am lonely.
Two years ago, when Scott and I were first together, I remember doing this exact same thing. In the exact same spot. And I'd poured a glass of wine and put on a movie then, too. And as I cut paper and folded and taped and tied ribbon and curled each one beautifully (while Trinket nearly strangled herself with a roll of blue curling ribbon with dreidels on it) Scott and I had texted all night long. Nice, beautiful, lovely sentiments. Texts about what we'd felt in high school, and feelings that had never completely gone away. Texts that said we cared and we'd be there for each other. Texts that said not to forget how wonderful we are.
And here I am this year, alone wrapping the damn gifts.
I was longing for a nice text from one of my fun, attentive, kind friends. I felt a little alone with out them.
But it is a holiday weekend. People are with their families. This happens. Again, this is not the world's biggest tragedy. No one is sitting at their family dinner table thinking, "Oh. We should have thought to invite Liza. It is her first Thanksgiving without Scott." Come one.
But out of the blue, Christopher sends me a message.
I had messaged him - and a couple others - the day before, letting them know how much I appreciated their completely unexpected kindness and that my faith in people was restored.
He messaged me telling me he was really just a dork, and that life is too short not to reach out and help a friend.
I messaged that I am just a dork too, then, and thank you.
And he wrote, "Are you kidding???? You were always too cool for school!"
Really? Is that the way he sees me? That's not the way I saw me.
I've mentioned on Facebook that I have a heinous cold. He comments to me in a message that he's sorry I am feeling yucky.
I ask about "getting the band together" and he says he's working on it, but there are a lot of crazy schedules to deal with out there. But he'll keep plugging away.
We laugh about a couple of other topics before we sign off.
I am nearly done my gift wrapping. Trinket has eaten several inches of curling ribbon. I am drowsy on Alka-Seltzer Cold and Flu. And am feeling less lonely by the minute.
I clean. I cut branches. I get my chainsaw serviced. I go to the bank. The dry cleaners. The tailor. The liquor store.
I also do some more Christmas shopping. I am nearly done. Let's keep going!
That evening, as my cold starts to get the better of me, I walk to CVS to get some nasal spray and cold medicine. I need to get rid of this nastiness, and quick. I am headed out with The Girls on Sunday night.
Later that night, after a short nap, I decide to put on a Christmas movie and wrap all the gifts I have purchased. I'll start with the gifts for my office, since they take some assembling.
And as I sit on the floor at the far end of my living room to wrap the 8 gifts for my direct reports plus one for the assistant I share, I am lonely.
Two years ago, when Scott and I were first together, I remember doing this exact same thing. In the exact same spot. And I'd poured a glass of wine and put on a movie then, too. And as I cut paper and folded and taped and tied ribbon and curled each one beautifully (while Trinket nearly strangled herself with a roll of blue curling ribbon with dreidels on it) Scott and I had texted all night long. Nice, beautiful, lovely sentiments. Texts about what we'd felt in high school, and feelings that had never completely gone away. Texts that said we cared and we'd be there for each other. Texts that said not to forget how wonderful we are.
And here I am this year, alone wrapping the damn gifts.
I was longing for a nice text from one of my fun, attentive, kind friends. I felt a little alone with out them.
But it is a holiday weekend. People are with their families. This happens. Again, this is not the world's biggest tragedy. No one is sitting at their family dinner table thinking, "Oh. We should have thought to invite Liza. It is her first Thanksgiving without Scott." Come one.
But out of the blue, Christopher sends me a message.
I had messaged him - and a couple others - the day before, letting them know how much I appreciated their completely unexpected kindness and that my faith in people was restored.
He messaged me telling me he was really just a dork, and that life is too short not to reach out and help a friend.
I messaged that I am just a dork too, then, and thank you.
And he wrote, "Are you kidding???? You were always too cool for school!"
Really? Is that the way he sees me? That's not the way I saw me.
I've mentioned on Facebook that I have a heinous cold. He comments to me in a message that he's sorry I am feeling yucky.
I ask about "getting the band together" and he says he's working on it, but there are a lot of crazy schedules to deal with out there. But he'll keep plugging away.
We laugh about a couple of other topics before we sign off.
I am nearly done my gift wrapping. Trinket has eaten several inches of curling ribbon. I am drowsy on Alka-Seltzer Cold and Flu. And am feeling less lonely by the minute.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Blue Friday Night
After a few hours of shopping, breakfast, more shopping, some ling lines in a fitting room, and a lot of patience wearing thin, the kids have had enough. We are happy to return to the car, thankfully parked in a primo spot and make a hasty exit.
I need a nap for sure, but also need to clean my house. My time remaining with the kids is waning and I dread their leaving. I usually see them off to school on the “hand off day” and do not actually have this kind of death row last meal kind of time. We talk and laugh and they don’t hesitate to help me with a few household tasks. They tell me it was the best Thanksgiving ever. Nice to hear.
After they’ve gone, I take a short nap. I am exhausted from the early hour, the cold I’m fighting, the forceful letting go of Scott. I am actively pushing him from my thoughts. It is a full time job.
But a friend is joining me right at 5 pm for a walk to a neighborhood pub and some good girl chat. So after a little light snooze, I jump into the shower, make myself fabulous, put on some fun jeans (again embroidered – this time up the backs of the legs- screaming to be touched) and a cool sweater. Perfection. Just in case we happen to bump smack into Mr. Fabulous. Not likely. I live here. If Mr. Fabulous lives here, too, I already know him, and he’s not actually that fabulous.
We down a few beers, rehash the latest thoughts on Scott so we can never mention him again, and have a few laughs. I tell her how warmed I have been by some of the lovely sentiments I’ve gotten from some unlikely friends and acquaintances. I show her some Facebook pictures of them, so she can put faces with identities. She thinks a few of them show real potential.
There is one who on paper looks fabulous. But he is a very far to the right religious man and I am sure I’d be a huge disappointment in that department. I am a Reformed Catholic as opposed to an Orthodox Catholic. I am sure the explanation would send him clutching for the nearest Rosary. And he’s a die hard runner. And I will never run. Unless a mad man with a big knife is chasing me. I want a man who will lay in bed with me on Sunday and read the New York Times. Not one who is going to call me from three counties away in his nylon shorts asking if I’d like him to pick up the Times because it is just hitting the newsstands.
There is Christopher. Cute, lives on the water somewhere. Takes lots of photos of birds. Adorable. And funny. More my speed. No outrageous fitness hang-ups. And he’s been so nice. And funny as hell.
My friend tells me to keep an open mind. The next great thing could be lurking anywhere in any form.
But for now, James is blowing up our phones. Where are we? What are we doing for fun? He spilled turkey brine all over his floor and is frantic. Can we come have a beer and make him laugh?
Of course we can.
I need a nap for sure, but also need to clean my house. My time remaining with the kids is waning and I dread their leaving. I usually see them off to school on the “hand off day” and do not actually have this kind of death row last meal kind of time. We talk and laugh and they don’t hesitate to help me with a few household tasks. They tell me it was the best Thanksgiving ever. Nice to hear.
After they’ve gone, I take a short nap. I am exhausted from the early hour, the cold I’m fighting, the forceful letting go of Scott. I am actively pushing him from my thoughts. It is a full time job.
But a friend is joining me right at 5 pm for a walk to a neighborhood pub and some good girl chat. So after a little light snooze, I jump into the shower, make myself fabulous, put on some fun jeans (again embroidered – this time up the backs of the legs- screaming to be touched) and a cool sweater. Perfection. Just in case we happen to bump smack into Mr. Fabulous. Not likely. I live here. If Mr. Fabulous lives here, too, I already know him, and he’s not actually that fabulous.
We down a few beers, rehash the latest thoughts on Scott so we can never mention him again, and have a few laughs. I tell her how warmed I have been by some of the lovely sentiments I’ve gotten from some unlikely friends and acquaintances. I show her some Facebook pictures of them, so she can put faces with identities. She thinks a few of them show real potential.
There is one who on paper looks fabulous. But he is a very far to the right religious man and I am sure I’d be a huge disappointment in that department. I am a Reformed Catholic as opposed to an Orthodox Catholic. I am sure the explanation would send him clutching for the nearest Rosary. And he’s a die hard runner. And I will never run. Unless a mad man with a big knife is chasing me. I want a man who will lay in bed with me on Sunday and read the New York Times. Not one who is going to call me from three counties away in his nylon shorts asking if I’d like him to pick up the Times because it is just hitting the newsstands.
There is Christopher. Cute, lives on the water somewhere. Takes lots of photos of birds. Adorable. And funny. More my speed. No outrageous fitness hang-ups. And he’s been so nice. And funny as hell.
My friend tells me to keep an open mind. The next great thing could be lurking anywhere in any form.
But for now, James is blowing up our phones. Where are we? What are we doing for fun? He spilled turkey brine all over his floor and is frantic. Can we come have a beer and make him laugh?
Of course we can.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Blue Friday
Against all odds, my children actually do want to rise at the crack of dawn to go shopping on Black Friday. I had gone to bed thinking it was merely a fantasy. That when the alarms sounded, they’d turn them off, turn over, and turn in for another few hours of sleep.
Not so.
Hil’s alarm sounded and she quietly and peaceably went into Pat’s room to nudge him awake. They agreed to get ready and let me sleep until the very last possible minute. At least the last possible minute in their game plan.
By 6:30 am we were on the road. By 7 the car was parked at the biggest mall in the area and we were joining the reindeer games. The kids were like puppies with their unbridled enthusiasm. I was more Scrooge with a fake smile.
Each kid had money to buy gifts for each other. The change jar had been counted and we’d amassed enough for each of them to spend $30. I let each of them take a little out of their accounts to buy for other people – Lars, Liza, friends they wanted to exchange with. And from the ATM where we’d engaged in high finance, we all departed from each other, cell phones turned on and a promise to answer when we call each other.
When the kids have scampered out of sight, I find the nearest Starbucks, get a latte, have a seat and take to Facebook. I have had something brewing inside that I must post.
I find a YouTube of Don Henley’s Heart of the Matter, listen all the way through, manage not to cry, and then post it to Facebook.
I post this for Someone who will never see it. For as much as yesterday was about giving thanks, today, for me, is about forgiveness and moving on.
I wonder if Scott’s daughters will give it a listen. I am sure they’d never heard of the song and wouldn’t listen far enough into hear the “even if, even if you don’t love me” part. Maybe they’ll care enough to listen. Probably not. It will more likely be the hopeless romantic girl next door and the boyfriend who take note.
But the post is really for me. I have decided not to waste a single minute more wondering what happened and wishing I had a chance to change things. I need to let go and move on.
But the letting go is hard. I loved my life with Scott. I miss my life with Scott. I wonder if I’ll find anything as close to perfect as what I had with Scott. I have to stop longing for it. I can never ever count on that again. It is time to focus on what my future might look like without the possibility of Scott.
I get a few messages privately about the post. A friend from school applauds my taking the high road and moving on, however painfully. My high school English teacher, who is also in touch with Scott asks how I am doing, since he’s gathered from the Henley song that my relationship with Scott is over.
I am amazed by the kindness I have been shown. The concern. The love. Some of it from some very unlikely sources. It’s not like my house burned down or my parents both perished in an unfortunate, highly publicized hot air balloon mishap. It’s a break up. A break up of astronomical proportions, but still.
My faith in humanity is restored, even though Scott had nearly left it in shreds. Perhaps there is hope that I’ll surprise myself and get happy.
Not so.
Hil’s alarm sounded and she quietly and peaceably went into Pat’s room to nudge him awake. They agreed to get ready and let me sleep until the very last possible minute. At least the last possible minute in their game plan.
By 6:30 am we were on the road. By 7 the car was parked at the biggest mall in the area and we were joining the reindeer games. The kids were like puppies with their unbridled enthusiasm. I was more Scrooge with a fake smile.
Each kid had money to buy gifts for each other. The change jar had been counted and we’d amassed enough for each of them to spend $30. I let each of them take a little out of their accounts to buy for other people – Lars, Liza, friends they wanted to exchange with. And from the ATM where we’d engaged in high finance, we all departed from each other, cell phones turned on and a promise to answer when we call each other.
When the kids have scampered out of sight, I find the nearest Starbucks, get a latte, have a seat and take to Facebook. I have had something brewing inside that I must post.
I find a YouTube of Don Henley’s Heart of the Matter, listen all the way through, manage not to cry, and then post it to Facebook.
I post this for Someone who will never see it. For as much as yesterday was about giving thanks, today, for me, is about forgiveness and moving on.
I wonder if Scott’s daughters will give it a listen. I am sure they’d never heard of the song and wouldn’t listen far enough into hear the “even if, even if you don’t love me” part. Maybe they’ll care enough to listen. Probably not. It will more likely be the hopeless romantic girl next door and the boyfriend who take note.
But the post is really for me. I have decided not to waste a single minute more wondering what happened and wishing I had a chance to change things. I need to let go and move on.
But the letting go is hard. I loved my life with Scott. I miss my life with Scott. I wonder if I’ll find anything as close to perfect as what I had with Scott. I have to stop longing for it. I can never ever count on that again. It is time to focus on what my future might look like without the possibility of Scott.
I get a few messages privately about the post. A friend from school applauds my taking the high road and moving on, however painfully. My high school English teacher, who is also in touch with Scott asks how I am doing, since he’s gathered from the Henley song that my relationship with Scott is over.
I am amazed by the kindness I have been shown. The concern. The love. Some of it from some very unlikely sources. It’s not like my house burned down or my parents both perished in an unfortunate, highly publicized hot air balloon mishap. It’s a break up. A break up of astronomical proportions, but still.
My faith in humanity is restored, even though Scott had nearly left it in shreds. Perhaps there is hope that I’ll surprise myself and get happy.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Turkey Day Eve
The evening before Thanksgiving is quiet and peaceful. Hil and I sit by the fire watching Glee reruns and Pat goes to Homecoming. It is the first school event he's voluntarily attended and I am very proud of the way he put himself out there against his nature. I am thinking I will eventually have to do the same thing. Yuck.
Thanksgiving morning comes and I post on Facebook that I am grateful for my colorful life, my wonderful friends and family near and far who inspire me, enlighten me and sustain me. It is a post that covers all the bases. And includes a Joni Mitchell quote. Perfection.
I prepare the dishes I'd promised Charlotte. Sweet Potato Spatchcock and an apple crisp. The Spatchcock as it is known is a delicious mistake of a dish I repeat from memory every year since I first hoped and prayed through it. I had had one recipe for a sweet potato casserole, and another for a sweet potato souffle, and had most of the ingredients for both, but not one complete recipe. I improvised. How can you go wrong with brown sugar and pecans and marshmallows and vanilla breakfast cereal and lots of butter? It's become a crowd favorite and I make pounds and pounds of it so that my one nephew can enjoy it all week.
At the appointed hour, I put on my festively fall colored outfit and pack the kids, the goodies and everything else into the car. We go over the river and through the woods and soon are enjoying the company of Charlotte's family and some friends of her and Jacks.
The woman remarks on my fancy pants. They are moss green brushed cotton with muted-color paisels cross stitched all over the bell bottoms and up the back of my legs. Very sexy in an understated way. She asks where I got them. I tell her a zillion years ago at Daffy's when I was on a mission for Date Clothes during my divorce. They were from my Touchable Clothes phase.
My whaaaa?
I explain that when I re-entered the dating scene and had to burn all of my mommy clothes and flannel pajamas in favor of new figure flattering fabulous items to lift the spirit and inpire a man to ask me on a date, I had gone through a phase where I'd been hell bent on Touchable Clothes. Clothes that were so textured or so soft or so interesting in some way that a man would be inspired to touch them. And then presumably ask me for a date.
She looks at me like she can't believe anyone actually had a thought so innane.
And I tell her that I am about to go an buy a batch of new date clothes, since Scott flew the coop and it is time to repeat that little exercise.
She thinks I shouldn't have to...since obviously I'd have date clothes from dates with Scott.
And I have to tell her that we really didn't have a lot of dates. What we did was surf and jet ski and romp in the ocean and walk on the boardwalk and BBQ in the yard with beer and Gin and Tonics.
Again, she looks like I've just flown in from Mars. But that was my life. The one I miss. The one I am pining for right this minute.
Eventually we sit and eat our fabulous dinner. Jack and Charlotte have outdone themselves and we are all having a blast. Between the martinis and the cold medicine I've been taking, I find myself asleep at the dining table hours after dessert while the boys build a bonfire outside and Charlotte cleans up around her slumbering idiot sister.
Another fine showing. I really need to get my act together.
Thanksgiving morning comes and I post on Facebook that I am grateful for my colorful life, my wonderful friends and family near and far who inspire me, enlighten me and sustain me. It is a post that covers all the bases. And includes a Joni Mitchell quote. Perfection.
I prepare the dishes I'd promised Charlotte. Sweet Potato Spatchcock and an apple crisp. The Spatchcock as it is known is a delicious mistake of a dish I repeat from memory every year since I first hoped and prayed through it. I had had one recipe for a sweet potato casserole, and another for a sweet potato souffle, and had most of the ingredients for both, but not one complete recipe. I improvised. How can you go wrong with brown sugar and pecans and marshmallows and vanilla breakfast cereal and lots of butter? It's become a crowd favorite and I make pounds and pounds of it so that my one nephew can enjoy it all week.
At the appointed hour, I put on my festively fall colored outfit and pack the kids, the goodies and everything else into the car. We go over the river and through the woods and soon are enjoying the company of Charlotte's family and some friends of her and Jacks.
The woman remarks on my fancy pants. They are moss green brushed cotton with muted-color paisels cross stitched all over the bell bottoms and up the back of my legs. Very sexy in an understated way. She asks where I got them. I tell her a zillion years ago at Daffy's when I was on a mission for Date Clothes during my divorce. They were from my Touchable Clothes phase.
My whaaaa?
I explain that when I re-entered the dating scene and had to burn all of my mommy clothes and flannel pajamas in favor of new figure flattering fabulous items to lift the spirit and inpire a man to ask me on a date, I had gone through a phase where I'd been hell bent on Touchable Clothes. Clothes that were so textured or so soft or so interesting in some way that a man would be inspired to touch them. And then presumably ask me for a date.
She looks at me like she can't believe anyone actually had a thought so innane.
And I tell her that I am about to go an buy a batch of new date clothes, since Scott flew the coop and it is time to repeat that little exercise.
She thinks I shouldn't have to...since obviously I'd have date clothes from dates with Scott.
And I have to tell her that we really didn't have a lot of dates. What we did was surf and jet ski and romp in the ocean and walk on the boardwalk and BBQ in the yard with beer and Gin and Tonics.
Again, she looks like I've just flown in from Mars. But that was my life. The one I miss. The one I am pining for right this minute.
Eventually we sit and eat our fabulous dinner. Jack and Charlotte have outdone themselves and we are all having a blast. Between the martinis and the cold medicine I've been taking, I find myself asleep at the dining table hours after dessert while the boys build a bonfire outside and Charlotte cleans up around her slumbering idiot sister.
Another fine showing. I really need to get my act together.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Attitude Adjustment, Aisle Five
The next day, as the running nose and cough due to cold begin to rear their ugly little heads, I prepare for my coaching session.
I have an executive coach. It requires time I don't have, but it is fun and demonstrates an investment in me. Who knows, maybe I'll learn something.
We are at the stage where I have to set goals. Development goals, professional goals, goals for my private life.
I had worked very hard on these and discussed the list with my coach a few weeks earlier. Oddly, one of my personal goals involved a plan for me and Scott. We'd known that marriage was unrealistic for the time; we both have kids that are blooming and growing in our respective towns. It would be years before we'd be able to combine our households and get under on roof. But we were committed, we'd said. I wanted to iron out a road map for the next few years. Make sure we stayed on track. Scott knew nothing of this. I guess that's obvious now.
But I sit with my coach and tell her we can look at one of my freshly minted goals one of two ways:
1. I am an overachieving pain in the ass and have crossed my personal goal off the list in record time. My plan with Scott is that there is no plan. Done. Finis. Kaput. Next!
or
2. My goal was preposterous and I need a new one, with a firmer basis in reality.
She is very nice and very supportive and frankly amazed that I can speak about it all without crying. I tell her some of the events of the humiliating story, and she is firmly on my side like any good coach would be. I tell her how hurtful it was to be unfriended on Facebook. I feel a little guilty about having done an in-your-face status change that drove him to do it. She asks me which I think is the more obnoxious thing to have done, made my status "single" on Facebook, or making my status single in real life. Point taken.
She coaches me to "put myself out there" socially and give other people a chance to see how fabulous I am. I tell her Scott's daughter's advice to me has been to "never frown, you never know who might be falling in love with your smile."
She agrees and tells me to let myself shine.
OK, then.
On the way home from work I stop for groceries. I need some things for Thanksgiving at Charlotte's and some bagels for the kids and cat food. I'd normally have my groceries delivered but the cats will starve by then.
As I meander throught the unfamiliar aisles of the store that lies between work and home, I am the picture of misery. Cold, tired, still in my work clothes, still in my cruel shoes.
I am in the cat food aisle looking at cans of poultry flavored mush when a man says something to me. I look at him. "Pardon me?"
He looks at me and says, smiling, "The list says "fish" flavored. Do you think that means salmon or tuna?"
I say, deadpanning, "Buy both. Why risk it?" and realize that I could not look or sound more miserable.
Here I am talking to a reasonably good-looking, nicely attired, personable, albeit clearly married man, and I have on my best "Where do they keep the fucking bagels" face.
Re-entry is going to be painful.
I have an executive coach. It requires time I don't have, but it is fun and demonstrates an investment in me. Who knows, maybe I'll learn something.
We are at the stage where I have to set goals. Development goals, professional goals, goals for my private life.
I had worked very hard on these and discussed the list with my coach a few weeks earlier. Oddly, one of my personal goals involved a plan for me and Scott. We'd known that marriage was unrealistic for the time; we both have kids that are blooming and growing in our respective towns. It would be years before we'd be able to combine our households and get under on roof. But we were committed, we'd said. I wanted to iron out a road map for the next few years. Make sure we stayed on track. Scott knew nothing of this. I guess that's obvious now.
But I sit with my coach and tell her we can look at one of my freshly minted goals one of two ways:
1. I am an overachieving pain in the ass and have crossed my personal goal off the list in record time. My plan with Scott is that there is no plan. Done. Finis. Kaput. Next!
or
2. My goal was preposterous and I need a new one, with a firmer basis in reality.
She is very nice and very supportive and frankly amazed that I can speak about it all without crying. I tell her some of the events of the humiliating story, and she is firmly on my side like any good coach would be. I tell her how hurtful it was to be unfriended on Facebook. I feel a little guilty about having done an in-your-face status change that drove him to do it. She asks me which I think is the more obnoxious thing to have done, made my status "single" on Facebook, or making my status single in real life. Point taken.
She coaches me to "put myself out there" socially and give other people a chance to see how fabulous I am. I tell her Scott's daughter's advice to me has been to "never frown, you never know who might be falling in love with your smile."
She agrees and tells me to let myself shine.
OK, then.
On the way home from work I stop for groceries. I need some things for Thanksgiving at Charlotte's and some bagels for the kids and cat food. I'd normally have my groceries delivered but the cats will starve by then.
As I meander throught the unfamiliar aisles of the store that lies between work and home, I am the picture of misery. Cold, tired, still in my work clothes, still in my cruel shoes.
I am in the cat food aisle looking at cans of poultry flavored mush when a man says something to me. I look at him. "Pardon me?"
He looks at me and says, smiling, "The list says "fish" flavored. Do you think that means salmon or tuna?"
I say, deadpanning, "Buy both. Why risk it?" and realize that I could not look or sound more miserable.
Here I am talking to a reasonably good-looking, nicely attired, personable, albeit clearly married man, and I have on my best "Where do they keep the fucking bagels" face.
Re-entry is going to be painful.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Take Note
In the meantime, my friends and sister continue to check in.
Charlotte tells me that she talked with Mom. And that in the interest of avoiding some painful fireside Christmas Eve retelling of the story on my part, she has shared the whole heinous, humiliating story about me and Scott. She tells me Mom cried and said that she loves me. Maybe something in her icy heart will soften and there will be some silver lining in this uniquely horrifying life event. Still I am not thrilled with the trade off. Mom is hardly a substitute for what I've lost.
I continue to send up smoke signals on Facebook about my heartbreak. One day I commit to "getting my girl on" and channeling my inner Pink and post a video of Blow Me (One Last Kiss). On another day I post a John Wayne quote about courage being that you're scared to death but saddle up anyway. My friend Christopher messages me on Facebook. A good guy. I don't know him that well but he's loads of fun. A crazy man. And very, very nice.
"Everything okay with you, Liza?"
Very perceptive. And nice to ask. Where were all these nice guys when we were all in college together?
I message back.
Well, no, now that you've asked. The man I've shared my life with for 2 years flaked after the storm and left my life. No break up. No explanation. No fight. Poof. Gone. I am heartbroken, to be honest, but even more baffled about what happened. So I am having a hard time springboarding out of my misery. Thank you for asking. Sorry about the tale of woe."
He is on it in a minute. But not the usual words of encouragement. No prayers for me. No there, there, time heals all wounds. No this too shall pass.
"You know what that means? A road trip! Let's get the band back together! Can you do that?"
I tell him I can. As I will have loads of time for such things. He thinks he's offended me and apologizes for making light of the situation. As if it could be done. I tell him I need something to look forward to...let's plan something.
He asks about my availability. I tell him about my f*cktard custody arrangement.
"On it!" he writes. "More to follow!"
And I find that against all odds, I am smiling.
Charlotte tells me that she talked with Mom. And that in the interest of avoiding some painful fireside Christmas Eve retelling of the story on my part, she has shared the whole heinous, humiliating story about me and Scott. She tells me Mom cried and said that she loves me. Maybe something in her icy heart will soften and there will be some silver lining in this uniquely horrifying life event. Still I am not thrilled with the trade off. Mom is hardly a substitute for what I've lost.
I continue to send up smoke signals on Facebook about my heartbreak. One day I commit to "getting my girl on" and channeling my inner Pink and post a video of Blow Me (One Last Kiss). On another day I post a John Wayne quote about courage being that you're scared to death but saddle up anyway. My friend Christopher messages me on Facebook. A good guy. I don't know him that well but he's loads of fun. A crazy man. And very, very nice.
"Everything okay with you, Liza?"
Very perceptive. And nice to ask. Where were all these nice guys when we were all in college together?
I message back.
Well, no, now that you've asked. The man I've shared my life with for 2 years flaked after the storm and left my life. No break up. No explanation. No fight. Poof. Gone. I am heartbroken, to be honest, but even more baffled about what happened. So I am having a hard time springboarding out of my misery. Thank you for asking. Sorry about the tale of woe."
He is on it in a minute. But not the usual words of encouragement. No prayers for me. No there, there, time heals all wounds. No this too shall pass.
"You know what that means? A road trip! Let's get the band back together! Can you do that?"
I tell him I can. As I will have loads of time for such things. He thinks he's offended me and apologizes for making light of the situation. As if it could be done. I tell him I need something to look forward to...let's plan something.
He asks about my availability. I tell him about my f*cktard custody arrangement.
"On it!" he writes. "More to follow!"
And I find that against all odds, I am smiling.
Friday, December 14, 2012
If I Had Known, A Poem
If I had known that the last time I would see you, the last time I would touch you, was as we said goodbye at my car before the storm, I would have taken a moment to soak it in. To soak you in.
I would have studied your face in the sunlight; taken one last look at the blueness of your eyes. The angle of your jaw. Your perfect nose. I would have kissed you a little longer.
I would have memorized the way your arms felt around me as you hugged me one last time and put your face in my hair. I would have lingered a little longer there in your embrace.
If I had known it was the last time I'd hold your hands, I would have held them longer, pressing into memory the way they feel holding mine --- so much bigger, so much stronger.
If I had known it was the last time I'd be near enough to touch you, I would have touched you at every chance.
When you leaned across me in the car to touch the kitten in her crate on the passenger seat, I would have breathed in your scent. Breathed it in and committed it to memory.
I would have touched your hair. Kissed your neck. I would have held your face in my hands and kissed it one last time.
If I had known that the last time I would hear your voice was on that routine, casual, everyday phone call on the way home from work, I would have made it more meaningful.
When you said goodbye with your usual "Call me a little later, love you, bye!" I would not have said, "Will do, love you, bye!"
I would have made my last words to you mean something for ever after.
I would have used your name. I would have said, "Of course I will. I love you with all my heart, Scott."
Those are the words of Ever After.
If I had known that after all this time you would leave me without a word and hurt me more than any words you could say could ever pierce my heart, I would have given my heart less fully.
No, I would not have.
I would have studied your face in the sunlight; taken one last look at the blueness of your eyes. The angle of your jaw. Your perfect nose. I would have kissed you a little longer.
I would have memorized the way your arms felt around me as you hugged me one last time and put your face in my hair. I would have lingered a little longer there in your embrace.
If I had known it was the last time I'd hold your hands, I would have held them longer, pressing into memory the way they feel holding mine --- so much bigger, so much stronger.
If I had known it was the last time I'd be near enough to touch you, I would have touched you at every chance.
When you leaned across me in the car to touch the kitten in her crate on the passenger seat, I would have breathed in your scent. Breathed it in and committed it to memory.
I would have touched your hair. Kissed your neck. I would have held your face in my hands and kissed it one last time.
If I had known that the last time I would hear your voice was on that routine, casual, everyday phone call on the way home from work, I would have made it more meaningful.
When you said goodbye with your usual "Call me a little later, love you, bye!" I would not have said, "Will do, love you, bye!"
I would have made my last words to you mean something for ever after.
I would have used your name. I would have said, "Of course I will. I love you with all my heart, Scott."
Those are the words of Ever After.
If I had known that after all this time you would leave me without a word and hurt me more than any words you could say could ever pierce my heart, I would have given my heart less fully.
No, I would not have.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Lonely Days and Lonely Nights
I will myself to sleep, though it is much harder now without the soothing security that knowing someone loves you brings. No one to pull you close after you've had a bad dream. No one on the end of the phone when you are vulnerable and feeling small. No one to look forward to greeting with a kiss and warm embrace. All that replaced by an unsettling sense of solitude.
I manage to dress and groom in the morning. There is an emptiness to it now that there is not the remotest possibility that I'll see Scott at work like I often would. But still, I churn out the hype with the outfit and apply makeup. Maybe I'll bump into the next Temporary Mr. Right on an elevator. May as well try not to advertise my new-found hag-dom.
I plod through the day. I am grateful for consuming but not too taxing work. Anything complicated would surely cause me to short circuit.
But still, throughout the day, thoughts of Scott creep in in the moments where there is a lull in the usual chaos.
How could he do this to me? How could he just so casually throw it all away? Good luck finding another relationship like this. We don't fight. We don't get on each other's nerves. We like to do the same things. We enjoy each other's company. We laugh. We balance each other. We complement each other. There is no tension. No bullshit. And we have a noteworthy love life.
At least we did.
And that will be hard to duplicate. If he's looking for the next relationship.
I wonder about that. The thought of him being cute and adoring and flirty with someone else quite literally makes my stomach churn. Goodbye to the next five pounds.
But maybe in his crisis he is really just trying to unburden himself of all of his obligations. And counted me among them. We had talked about a ring at Christmas. Was that expecting too much?
Would it have been expecting too much for him to simply explain to me that he is overwhelmed by life and share his burdens with me? Did we have to go to extremes? Did it have to be so absolute? So final? So abrupt? So cruel?
I think about these things all the way home in the car. My evening stretches on endlessly in front of me. None of the normal Scott routines apply anymore. It is a blank slate. I'll have to figure out what to do with all the time. I am completely off my game. Caught off guard. A woman without a plan.
I walk into the house and go immediately to my laptop.
I need to write. If only for me.
I manage to dress and groom in the morning. There is an emptiness to it now that there is not the remotest possibility that I'll see Scott at work like I often would. But still, I churn out the hype with the outfit and apply makeup. Maybe I'll bump into the next Temporary Mr. Right on an elevator. May as well try not to advertise my new-found hag-dom.
I plod through the day. I am grateful for consuming but not too taxing work. Anything complicated would surely cause me to short circuit.
But still, throughout the day, thoughts of Scott creep in in the moments where there is a lull in the usual chaos.
How could he do this to me? How could he just so casually throw it all away? Good luck finding another relationship like this. We don't fight. We don't get on each other's nerves. We like to do the same things. We enjoy each other's company. We laugh. We balance each other. We complement each other. There is no tension. No bullshit. And we have a noteworthy love life.
At least we did.
And that will be hard to duplicate. If he's looking for the next relationship.
I wonder about that. The thought of him being cute and adoring and flirty with someone else quite literally makes my stomach churn. Goodbye to the next five pounds.
But maybe in his crisis he is really just trying to unburden himself of all of his obligations. And counted me among them. We had talked about a ring at Christmas. Was that expecting too much?
Would it have been expecting too much for him to simply explain to me that he is overwhelmed by life and share his burdens with me? Did we have to go to extremes? Did it have to be so absolute? So final? So abrupt? So cruel?
I think about these things all the way home in the car. My evening stretches on endlessly in front of me. None of the normal Scott routines apply anymore. It is a blank slate. I'll have to figure out what to do with all the time. I am completely off my game. Caught off guard. A woman without a plan.
I walk into the house and go immediately to my laptop.
I need to write. If only for me.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Woe Is I
Slowly, but steadily, my far flung friends figure out what is happening - or at least are curious enough to ask.
I'd started Saturday stating on Facebook that I'd fake it 'til I make it on the advice of a good friend.
I'd posted on Sunday that I'd follow the lead of the famous Christmas special and "Put One Foot In Front of the Other," and posted a YouTube clip of the Winter Warlock doing just that.
I met Kate for Mass and enjoyed the peaceful quiet of a traditional Mass made more beautiful by a lovely young boys choir. Kate and I chatted for a time in the parking lot before I headed homeward.
A friend from college reached out and asked if I was okay, and I'd texted her the story. She said I'd dodged a bullet. I am still not sure whether if feels worse to have people demonize Scott or to think it is a shame such a wonderful man is gone from my life.
I drive home and call my college roommate. I tell her the entire story, soup to nuts, all the high light film instant replay worthy moments. She is aghast and horribly saddened by it all. She'd been friends with him on Facebook too. They'd really had some fun together. We are all feeling a little bit of loss.
As much as I'd like to curl up and die, I can't. I've aske Lars if the kids can visit for a little while. My cousin is coming for the game and they have been asking for her. Somehow he finds a way to be a decent human being and allow it. I need to rally. The kids don't need to see me in pieces again.
The game is a stinker so my cuz and I chat about all that has happened. I tell her how I miss my life, I miss having things to dream about. I am so angry that he deprived me of any kind of say in the matter, or even a final parting comment, however meaningless to him. She advises me to write it all down. Send him a letter. Get it off my chest.
Instead I'll blog. He wants to vanish from my life and make a clean break. No messy lingering thoughts to contend with. There is no way he'd read a letter. I imagine that it would go straight into the shredder. And I'd have said it all to no one.
I'll blog, though the notion of taking myself through the darkest hours again just to get it all down is scary, especially since I am trying to get to a place when what happened and why doesn't matter, and to a time where Scott and our life together is not the first thing I think of when I open my eyes.
The kids go home. The game ends (we lose). My cousin goes home. I have had one too many beers.
It is Sunday night and I face a long sleepless night, a week of lonliness, and work that I can't begin to concentrate upon. Woe is I.
I'd started Saturday stating on Facebook that I'd fake it 'til I make it on the advice of a good friend.
I'd posted on Sunday that I'd follow the lead of the famous Christmas special and "Put One Foot In Front of the Other," and posted a YouTube clip of the Winter Warlock doing just that.
I met Kate for Mass and enjoyed the peaceful quiet of a traditional Mass made more beautiful by a lovely young boys choir. Kate and I chatted for a time in the parking lot before I headed homeward.
A friend from college reached out and asked if I was okay, and I'd texted her the story. She said I'd dodged a bullet. I am still not sure whether if feels worse to have people demonize Scott or to think it is a shame such a wonderful man is gone from my life.
I drive home and call my college roommate. I tell her the entire story, soup to nuts, all the high light film instant replay worthy moments. She is aghast and horribly saddened by it all. She'd been friends with him on Facebook too. They'd really had some fun together. We are all feeling a little bit of loss.
As much as I'd like to curl up and die, I can't. I've aske Lars if the kids can visit for a little while. My cousin is coming for the game and they have been asking for her. Somehow he finds a way to be a decent human being and allow it. I need to rally. The kids don't need to see me in pieces again.
The game is a stinker so my cuz and I chat about all that has happened. I tell her how I miss my life, I miss having things to dream about. I am so angry that he deprived me of any kind of say in the matter, or even a final parting comment, however meaningless to him. She advises me to write it all down. Send him a letter. Get it off my chest.
Instead I'll blog. He wants to vanish from my life and make a clean break. No messy lingering thoughts to contend with. There is no way he'd read a letter. I imagine that it would go straight into the shredder. And I'd have said it all to no one.
I'll blog, though the notion of taking myself through the darkest hours again just to get it all down is scary, especially since I am trying to get to a place when what happened and why doesn't matter, and to a time where Scott and our life together is not the first thing I think of when I open my eyes.
The kids go home. The game ends (we lose). My cousin goes home. I have had one too many beers.
It is Sunday night and I face a long sleepless night, a week of lonliness, and work that I can't begin to concentrate upon. Woe is I.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Getting By With A Little Help From My Friends
I nap. I rally a little. I clean my house. God only knows when the next variation of the man of my dreams is going to come knocking on my door.
I shower and make myself fabulous. If I am going to step out, I need to put my most appealing, inviting face forward. No one wants to approach a scowling, bitter old hag wearing a baggy cardigan and holey sweatpants.
I chat with Kate, who is in New York with her family for a show. She has told me the wrong time for Mass with the choir and wants to make sure I have the correct time. She thinks Jack is a saint to be going out with Charlotte and her weeping heartbroken sister. Most men wouldn't be caught dead. I thank her for pointing out my appalling lack of judgement about men. And then I tell her the whole sordid Scott story. So much BS to fill everyone in on. She tells me she'll spare me tha agony of repeating the story to Joy and Priscilla and bring them up to speed. She thinks I have not heard the last of Scott; that he'll be coming back around before the holidays.
She also tells me that she is hoping the hotel bar opens before her husband returns from Central Park with their boys. She needs a glass of wine, pronto.
Not long after, I get a text from Joy. Mark my calendar. Girls dinner on the Sunday after the holiday. Kate moves fast. But I am pleased. something else to look forward to.
I realize what is so painful, aside from the obvious having been dumped part.
I miss my life. I miss my life with Scott. We had fun. We traveled. We did things together. All of my routines and habits have been tied up in the care and feeding of this relationship and poof! It is up in smoke. I am struggling to rebuild - or rather, build anew. I am completely outside my own skin. It is as though my own life has suddenly become unfamiliar.
Charlotte and Jack arrive. We pour some Drama Queen Pinot Grigio and I give them a tour of the new kitchen and an intro to Gidget. And we head out.
The Pub is a neighborhood spot that is always brimming with locals and rocking with activity. Charlotte of course knows everyone and is off to the races. I sit with Jack at the bar and ask him what he thinks.
He tells me he doesn't know enough about what happened to make a judgement call. A safe but truthful answer. I can not wrap my head around why anyone would choose to break up with someone by process of elimination. I know Scott would not want to hurt me. I know he'd not be able to stand the sight of my tears, but truthfully, could he really be thinking that what he did would be less painful for me? Or was it really all about him?
Jack wonders out loud if I think Scott might be worried that when he lowered the boom, I'd turn into Estelle.
No. That can't be it, could it? Sure I screach at the cable company and the iPhone idiots, but doesn't everyone?
Could it really be that? Seriously? Is he a big chicken at heart? I might get mad and say something awful that I can't take back? So what? He'd be done with me in a matter of minutes. Asswipe.
We drink. We dine. We run into neighbors. The bar tender who used to wait on me and Scott looks confused when Jack and I order and he pays for it. The waitress who used to wait on me and Scott looks at the fourth chair at the table and asks if we are waiting for someone else to arrive. (Yes, George Clooney. If you see him, please send him over.)
I go home feeling loved by my family and lonely in my life. I climb into bed and have myself a little cry. Okay a good cry. A heaving, sobbing, messy, distorted face cry.
And by some miracle I get a message on Facebook.
My zany friend Ted, wondering about what is going on in my life. He senses trouble. Do I need a friend.
Yes, sir, right at this moment, I do.
And we chat back and forth for a time - me explaining what happened and my wretched feelings, and him telling me I am an amazing woman and whatever I need is mine. It isn't realistic, but it is nice to hear.
I am finally calm enough to go to sleep, though the notion of having to face another day alone is almost more than I can bear. But I will get by with a little help from my friends.
I shower and make myself fabulous. If I am going to step out, I need to put my most appealing, inviting face forward. No one wants to approach a scowling, bitter old hag wearing a baggy cardigan and holey sweatpants.
I chat with Kate, who is in New York with her family for a show. She has told me the wrong time for Mass with the choir and wants to make sure I have the correct time. She thinks Jack is a saint to be going out with Charlotte and her weeping heartbroken sister. Most men wouldn't be caught dead. I thank her for pointing out my appalling lack of judgement about men. And then I tell her the whole sordid Scott story. So much BS to fill everyone in on. She tells me she'll spare me tha agony of repeating the story to Joy and Priscilla and bring them up to speed. She thinks I have not heard the last of Scott; that he'll be coming back around before the holidays.
She also tells me that she is hoping the hotel bar opens before her husband returns from Central Park with their boys. She needs a glass of wine, pronto.
Not long after, I get a text from Joy. Mark my calendar. Girls dinner on the Sunday after the holiday. Kate moves fast. But I am pleased. something else to look forward to.
I realize what is so painful, aside from the obvious having been dumped part.
I miss my life. I miss my life with Scott. We had fun. We traveled. We did things together. All of my routines and habits have been tied up in the care and feeding of this relationship and poof! It is up in smoke. I am struggling to rebuild - or rather, build anew. I am completely outside my own skin. It is as though my own life has suddenly become unfamiliar.
Charlotte and Jack arrive. We pour some Drama Queen Pinot Grigio and I give them a tour of the new kitchen and an intro to Gidget. And we head out.
The Pub is a neighborhood spot that is always brimming with locals and rocking with activity. Charlotte of course knows everyone and is off to the races. I sit with Jack at the bar and ask him what he thinks.
He tells me he doesn't know enough about what happened to make a judgement call. A safe but truthful answer. I can not wrap my head around why anyone would choose to break up with someone by process of elimination. I know Scott would not want to hurt me. I know he'd not be able to stand the sight of my tears, but truthfully, could he really be thinking that what he did would be less painful for me? Or was it really all about him?
Jack wonders out loud if I think Scott might be worried that when he lowered the boom, I'd turn into Estelle.
No. That can't be it, could it? Sure I screach at the cable company and the iPhone idiots, but doesn't everyone?
Could it really be that? Seriously? Is he a big chicken at heart? I might get mad and say something awful that I can't take back? So what? He'd be done with me in a matter of minutes. Asswipe.
We drink. We dine. We run into neighbors. The bar tender who used to wait on me and Scott looks confused when Jack and I order and he pays for it. The waitress who used to wait on me and Scott looks at the fourth chair at the table and asks if we are waiting for someone else to arrive. (Yes, George Clooney. If you see him, please send him over.)
I go home feeling loved by my family and lonely in my life. I climb into bed and have myself a little cry. Okay a good cry. A heaving, sobbing, messy, distorted face cry.
And by some miracle I get a message on Facebook.
My zany friend Ted, wondering about what is going on in my life. He senses trouble. Do I need a friend.
Yes, sir, right at this moment, I do.
And we chat back and forth for a time - me explaining what happened and my wretched feelings, and him telling me I am an amazing woman and whatever I need is mine. It isn't realistic, but it is nice to hear.
I am finally calm enough to go to sleep, though the notion of having to face another day alone is almost more than I can bear. But I will get by with a little help from my friends.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Whine and Wine
I get into the car and drive to the wine and spirit shop. My phone is buzzing the entire time.
My former colleague is being thrown a surprise party. Would I like to come?
Sure!
J.'s ex-wife Sandy says it is time we finally have that cocktail. I send a note of agreement. Her girls must have tipped her off about my Facebook activity.
Kate's son is singing in a choir at a nearby church tomorrow. Would I like to join them for Mass?
What could be the harm in that?
My cousin would like to join me for the football game later in the afternoon. How about she stops by with chips and dips and beer?
Fine by me!
I am a little excited about my long endless days filling up before my eyes. I decide to buy some wine to go with each occasion.
A bottle of something called Be. Radiant. Chardonnay for Sandy.
A bottle of Malbec for the surprise party hosts.
Kate and I could polish off a bottle of anything but I choose a Chilean bottle in case she wants to sit and chat after Mass at my house.
Now what to get Charlotte and Jack?
It practically leaps off the shelf.
Middle Sister Vineyards Drama Queen Pinot Grigio.
Sold!
And I throw in a bottle of gin to go with the lonely bottles of diet tonic I have in my fridge.
I head to the mall for some shopping...but not quite Christmas shopping. I need new gear for my iPhone 5 that finally arrived after Scott had dumped me and I could not show it to him. I need some common household things. Because nothing makes you feel younger and more confident than buying a broom and an industrial sized bottle of aspirin substitute and a box of tampons.
And I am finding it hard to feel capable of moving again. I may need to eat something. I stop in the Chinese place to take a load off and eat an egg roll.
Another text.
It is my friend Rocky.
"Everything okay over there in your neck of the woods, Liza?"
I am beside myself at his kindness. An old friend. I dated him once. Charlotte may have had a date with him. He and I went to school together and became fast friends. One of the kindest guys you could ever meet. And a lovely wife and children to show for it.
I copy and paste the text I 've been sending. I make a few edits to personalize it to Rocky.
It is clear from his reply that he is heartbroken for me. And just as baffled. He agrees that it is a crisis of some sort, but that has stopped making me feel any better. The Rock Man suggests that I am lucky that he flaked now, and not three years into marriage.
I suppose he's right...but all I want to do after having to think about it again is nap. I head for the car and bomb for home so I can take a nap and forget for a time.
My former colleague is being thrown a surprise party. Would I like to come?
Sure!
J.'s ex-wife Sandy says it is time we finally have that cocktail. I send a note of agreement. Her girls must have tipped her off about my Facebook activity.
Kate's son is singing in a choir at a nearby church tomorrow. Would I like to join them for Mass?
What could be the harm in that?
My cousin would like to join me for the football game later in the afternoon. How about she stops by with chips and dips and beer?
Fine by me!
I am a little excited about my long endless days filling up before my eyes. I decide to buy some wine to go with each occasion.
A bottle of something called Be. Radiant. Chardonnay for Sandy.
A bottle of Malbec for the surprise party hosts.
Kate and I could polish off a bottle of anything but I choose a Chilean bottle in case she wants to sit and chat after Mass at my house.
Now what to get Charlotte and Jack?
It practically leaps off the shelf.
Middle Sister Vineyards Drama Queen Pinot Grigio.
Sold!
And I throw in a bottle of gin to go with the lonely bottles of diet tonic I have in my fridge.
I head to the mall for some shopping...but not quite Christmas shopping. I need new gear for my iPhone 5 that finally arrived after Scott had dumped me and I could not show it to him. I need some common household things. Because nothing makes you feel younger and more confident than buying a broom and an industrial sized bottle of aspirin substitute and a box of tampons.
And I am finding it hard to feel capable of moving again. I may need to eat something. I stop in the Chinese place to take a load off and eat an egg roll.
Another text.
It is my friend Rocky.
"Everything okay over there in your neck of the woods, Liza?"
I am beside myself at his kindness. An old friend. I dated him once. Charlotte may have had a date with him. He and I went to school together and became fast friends. One of the kindest guys you could ever meet. And a lovely wife and children to show for it.
I copy and paste the text I 've been sending. I make a few edits to personalize it to Rocky.
It is clear from his reply that he is heartbroken for me. And just as baffled. He agrees that it is a crisis of some sort, but that has stopped making me feel any better. The Rock Man suggests that I am lucky that he flaked now, and not three years into marriage.
I suppose he's right...but all I want to do after having to think about it again is nap. I head for the car and bomb for home so I can take a nap and forget for a time.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Rain Nor Sleet Nor Gloom of Night
I get up and start moving but doing anything but sitting and dwelling is downright painful. I start to strip a bed. I sit and simper a little. I finish making the bed. I lay down across it and sniffle a little.
Charlotte calls. I am immediately crying. I tell her everything. She wants to kill him all over again. I tell her I feel like the housewife whose husband goes out for a pack of smokes and never comes back. I have that many answers.
She tells me my life has become a country song.
I post the sentiment to Facebook and credit her. Suddenly we are both laughing.
She tells me that she and Jack will be over to take me out to the Pub for dinner and in the meantime I need to get myself looking fabulous and get out in public to mail that package back to Scott. Good riddance.
I do just that. I put on a zippy little sweater and jeans and my favorite boots, tie a cool scarf around my neck and head out with Scott's box of crap. I've returned all of his things, and a few that he's given me... household things that I can't bear to look at. I tell him as much in a note. I tell him I don't send the gifts back to hurt him, but that I can not help but be reminded of what might have been if we'd talked more and that I need to get him out of my head, if not my heart. Signed, sealed and addressed. I am off to the mall by way of the post office.
I wait in line, feeling the weight of the box and the weight of what I am doing. I am sure I look positively miserable. I make a mental note to stop by the liquor store around the corner. A little wine is in order.
When it is my turn, I step up to the desk and the clerk asks me how I'd like the package to be sent.
"Slow and cheap, " I say. "These are my boyfriend's things and he just dumped me. So let's not bother with insurance either."
"Any hazardous chemicals in the box, ma'am?"
Now why didn't I think of that?
"No," I say. "It is just a box of crappy memories."
The clerk looks at the address label. "Is this where he lives?"
I nod. He remarks that most of that town is under water from the storm.
"He's fine," I say. "He's fine. The house is fine. He's just an asshole, that's all."
We don't talk much more. I pay for shipping and walk away.
Somehow I don't feel unburdened. I take a picture of the receipt and text it to Scott.
"Your stuff's been mailed."
Charlotte calls. I am immediately crying. I tell her everything. She wants to kill him all over again. I tell her I feel like the housewife whose husband goes out for a pack of smokes and never comes back. I have that many answers.
She tells me my life has become a country song.
I post the sentiment to Facebook and credit her. Suddenly we are both laughing.
She tells me that she and Jack will be over to take me out to the Pub for dinner and in the meantime I need to get myself looking fabulous and get out in public to mail that package back to Scott. Good riddance.
I do just that. I put on a zippy little sweater and jeans and my favorite boots, tie a cool scarf around my neck and head out with Scott's box of crap. I've returned all of his things, and a few that he's given me... household things that I can't bear to look at. I tell him as much in a note. I tell him I don't send the gifts back to hurt him, but that I can not help but be reminded of what might have been if we'd talked more and that I need to get him out of my head, if not my heart. Signed, sealed and addressed. I am off to the mall by way of the post office.
I wait in line, feeling the weight of the box and the weight of what I am doing. I am sure I look positively miserable. I make a mental note to stop by the liquor store around the corner. A little wine is in order.
When it is my turn, I step up to the desk and the clerk asks me how I'd like the package to be sent.
"Slow and cheap, " I say. "These are my boyfriend's things and he just dumped me. So let's not bother with insurance either."
"Any hazardous chemicals in the box, ma'am?"
Now why didn't I think of that?
"No," I say. "It is just a box of crappy memories."
The clerk looks at the address label. "Is this where he lives?"
I nod. He remarks that most of that town is under water from the storm.
"He's fine," I say. "He's fine. The house is fine. He's just an asshole, that's all."
We don't talk much more. I pay for shipping and walk away.
Somehow I don't feel unburdened. I take a picture of the receipt and text it to Scott.
"Your stuff's been mailed."
Status Symbol
Through fits and starts and many Kleenex I tell Don my whole story. He is not one for a lot of drama, but he's as kind a man as any you could work for. And I've never dumped a personal problem all over him so he owes me this one lifetime indulgence.
He tells me he thinks Scott has had a midlife crisis. (This is becoming a theme.) He thinks he'll be back, but is not sure that would be a great thing. It would depend on me. And he offers to tell me about his midlife crisis.
I tell him that I was so outside my own skin the day before I'd nearly asked him, assuming he'd had one, since it's apparent that he's not twenty anymore.
He tells me some of the outrageously out of character things he did. Things he can't believe he did. Things he's not proud of. Things he'd never do now. And the reasons he felt like doing them.
Somehow that makes me feel better. To label it. But in truth, it is only a half comfort. Men have midlife crises in many forms. Jack had his and he went out and bought a vacation home without showing it to Charlotte. And a motorcycle. She got another million in life insurance and called it resolved. Not bad for something called a crisis. But her girlfriend's husband fell in love and ran off and married a twenty year old. Obviously the crisis turned his life in another direction for good. There was not turning back from it. What if that is Scott's fate?
It is apparent that I am worthless to the office and leave early. I go home. I make plans with James and his boyfriend.
And I log onto Facebook and go to my profile.
And change my status to "single."
Messages pour in from friends and relatives I have not told. Thank God I can copy and paste the same story to each of them and not actually have to think about what to write each time. It spares me the heartache of going to that dark little place.
Comments on my page are flowing in. Words of encouragement. Compliments. My friend's husband remarks that I will only be single as long as I want to be and calls me beautiful. It is a temporary high.
And somewhere in the middle of the night, while I am drinking with James and his mate, Scott unfriends me on Facebook and proceeds to systematically unfriend all the people we have friended as a result of our relationship.
Ouch.
He tells me he thinks Scott has had a midlife crisis. (This is becoming a theme.) He thinks he'll be back, but is not sure that would be a great thing. It would depend on me. And he offers to tell me about his midlife crisis.
I tell him that I was so outside my own skin the day before I'd nearly asked him, assuming he'd had one, since it's apparent that he's not twenty anymore.
He tells me some of the outrageously out of character things he did. Things he can't believe he did. Things he's not proud of. Things he'd never do now. And the reasons he felt like doing them.
Somehow that makes me feel better. To label it. But in truth, it is only a half comfort. Men have midlife crises in many forms. Jack had his and he went out and bought a vacation home without showing it to Charlotte. And a motorcycle. She got another million in life insurance and called it resolved. Not bad for something called a crisis. But her girlfriend's husband fell in love and ran off and married a twenty year old. Obviously the crisis turned his life in another direction for good. There was not turning back from it. What if that is Scott's fate?
It is apparent that I am worthless to the office and leave early. I go home. I make plans with James and his boyfriend.
And I log onto Facebook and go to my profile.
And change my status to "single."
Messages pour in from friends and relatives I have not told. Thank God I can copy and paste the same story to each of them and not actually have to think about what to write each time. It spares me the heartache of going to that dark little place.
Comments on my page are flowing in. Words of encouragement. Compliments. My friend's husband remarks that I will only be single as long as I want to be and calls me beautiful. It is a temporary high.
And somewhere in the middle of the night, while I am drinking with James and his mate, Scott unfriends me on Facebook and proceeds to systematically unfriend all the people we have friended as a result of our relationship.
Ouch.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
A Tale of Woe
I spend the rest of the night sending selective texts - copying and pasting the same sad, shocking, humiliating message to groups of friends. The Girls Weekend Girls, the high school pals who met Scott when I did, my college roommate. They are all so sweet. They are all shocked. They are all baffled at how it has all unfolded. They all want to kill Scott.
I feel the need to reach out to Scott's girls. And the kid next door who is always at the dinner table. And the older daughter's boyfriend.
I message them together on Facebook. I tell them I am not sure what has happened but it is apparent that I will not have an opportunity to say a proper goodbye to them. I tell them that I've loved getting to know them and will miss watching them become the wonderful people they will surely become. I wish them all well and let them know they will always be in my heart. It is heartbreaking to write. I've lived so much of their lives with them for two years.
Each one writes back, some more than once. It is nice to know that they thought they'd never have to say goodbye. It is nice to read all of the nice things they have to say. It still feels awful.
By some act of God, but against all logic, I get up and go to work. I make the rounds to the curious and supportive girlfriends. They are all sweet. They are all shocked. They are all baffled at how it has all unfolded. They all want to kill Scott.
I get a text from Charlotte asking about Thanksgiving. Do I have plans with Scott? Do we want to join them?
Time to face the music.
I tell her in several painful texts what has been happening. She is rabid. She is also sweet. And shocked. And baffled. And wants to kill Scott.
She texts him. They exchange several texts back and forth. At least he answers her. I guess he's not afraid of her crying. Of the look on her face.
My friend James reaches out. Everyone needs a supportive gay man when they are down on their luck. He invites me out for a drink later. It is the last thing I feel like doing, but I know I can not form a habit of laying down and dying. I need to survive this. It will try to kill me but I have to force my heart to keep beating in spite of itself.
And then I get a message from Scott.
"I am so sorry. I guess I kept quiet about little things and they became big things. I hope someday we can be friends. I have always loved you and will never stop. xoxo"
It is all I can bear. I am about to break into a million pieces when my boss Don walks in trying to reschedule a meeting. I ask him to shut the door. I've known this man for years and owe him an explanation.
"Don, I am totally off my game - and I don't want you to think it has anything to do with all the turmoil in the office. It doesn't."
"Oh," he says. "I had not noticed that you were off your game. What's wrong?"
And I can feel myself cracking.
I feel the need to reach out to Scott's girls. And the kid next door who is always at the dinner table. And the older daughter's boyfriend.
I message them together on Facebook. I tell them I am not sure what has happened but it is apparent that I will not have an opportunity to say a proper goodbye to them. I tell them that I've loved getting to know them and will miss watching them become the wonderful people they will surely become. I wish them all well and let them know they will always be in my heart. It is heartbreaking to write. I've lived so much of their lives with them for two years.
Each one writes back, some more than once. It is nice to know that they thought they'd never have to say goodbye. It is nice to read all of the nice things they have to say. It still feels awful.
By some act of God, but against all logic, I get up and go to work. I make the rounds to the curious and supportive girlfriends. They are all sweet. They are all shocked. They are all baffled at how it has all unfolded. They all want to kill Scott.
I get a text from Charlotte asking about Thanksgiving. Do I have plans with Scott? Do we want to join them?
Time to face the music.
I tell her in several painful texts what has been happening. She is rabid. She is also sweet. And shocked. And baffled. And wants to kill Scott.
She texts him. They exchange several texts back and forth. At least he answers her. I guess he's not afraid of her crying. Of the look on her face.
My friend James reaches out. Everyone needs a supportive gay man when they are down on their luck. He invites me out for a drink later. It is the last thing I feel like doing, but I know I can not form a habit of laying down and dying. I need to survive this. It will try to kill me but I have to force my heart to keep beating in spite of itself.
And then I get a message from Scott.
"I am so sorry. I guess I kept quiet about little things and they became big things. I hope someday we can be friends. I have always loved you and will never stop. xoxo"
It is all I can bear. I am about to break into a million pieces when my boss Don walks in trying to reschedule a meeting. I ask him to shut the door. I've known this man for years and owe him an explanation.
"Don, I am totally off my game - and I don't want you to think it has anything to do with all the turmoil in the office. It doesn't."
"Oh," he says. "I had not noticed that you were off your game. What's wrong?"
And I can feel myself cracking.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Take Your Cat and Leave My Sweater
By the next morning, I've angsted off the entire birth weight of my first born child. Leave it to me to shed every last excess fat cell at the first sign of trouble.
I tighten the belt a notch and head to work. Reality is sinking in, but I am still finding it hard to believe that Scott would just exit my life without a trace after two years in a committed relationship. We are each other's best friends. He doesn't think a conversation is warranted? At a minimum? What is he afraid of? That I'd cry? Of course I would. I think a few tears can be expected. Man up and face them. It won't last forever.
I need confirmation. I have a plan.
I am going to call when I get home. When he ignores the call and it goes directly and rudely to voicemail AGAIN, I will push the send button on the following text message and draft e-mail at the same time.
"Scott, please be reasonable. I am not interested in drama. I simply need to make arrangements to get my things from your house. Saturday or Sunday morning. You don't need to be there. Leave my key on the dresser. 10 minutes and I'm gone."
Having a plan, however doomed, gives me a dim sense of peace.
I drive home, barely breathing. It's been days since I've taken more than a shallow breath.
I greet the kids. I start dinner. I dial Scott.
One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingy. Voicemail.
Oh. My. God.
Send. Send.
He text back almost right away.
Please please please let this be a text telling me that I am overreacting. That I have it all wrong.
"Seems silly for you to drive all the way down here because of me. I will get your things to you."
There it is. Confirmation. I am single. Dumped. In the worst way possible.
I keep my composure.
"I have things of yours to return also. And I have no idea what you may have in my garage. I also need to get some of the art I've had hanging in your house. They are things that were from my Dad's house and I am not ready to part with them yet."
I sit and patiently wait for his game plan. But nothing comes.
A few hours later I decide to play tough.
"My sister has offered to drive with me to your house just to get this over with."
That gets his attention. I am sure he knows Charlotte would disembowel him on sight.
"No. Please stop," he writes.
"Well I'm not hearing any other alternative plans."
He writes that he'll mail my things on Saturday. And asks if that is soon enough.
I reply that yes, it is soon enough and I will do the same with his things.
And then, considering that is apparently the last order of business, I simply write, "Goodbye."
And as though he's insulted, he writes, "Nice."
And I am wild.
"I don't think you are in a position to judge my ability to communicate!"
"You vanish. You don't call. You don't answer. You don't text. You don't reply to texts. You just walk out. At least I had the courtesy to say goodbye. NICE!"
And then nothing.
I tighten the belt a notch and head to work. Reality is sinking in, but I am still finding it hard to believe that Scott would just exit my life without a trace after two years in a committed relationship. We are each other's best friends. He doesn't think a conversation is warranted? At a minimum? What is he afraid of? That I'd cry? Of course I would. I think a few tears can be expected. Man up and face them. It won't last forever.
I need confirmation. I have a plan.
I am going to call when I get home. When he ignores the call and it goes directly and rudely to voicemail AGAIN, I will push the send button on the following text message and draft e-mail at the same time.
"Scott, please be reasonable. I am not interested in drama. I simply need to make arrangements to get my things from your house. Saturday or Sunday morning. You don't need to be there. Leave my key on the dresser. 10 minutes and I'm gone."
Having a plan, however doomed, gives me a dim sense of peace.
I drive home, barely breathing. It's been days since I've taken more than a shallow breath.
I greet the kids. I start dinner. I dial Scott.
One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingy. Voicemail.
Oh. My. God.
Send. Send.
He text back almost right away.
Please please please let this be a text telling me that I am overreacting. That I have it all wrong.
"Seems silly for you to drive all the way down here because of me. I will get your things to you."
There it is. Confirmation. I am single. Dumped. In the worst way possible.
I keep my composure.
"I have things of yours to return also. And I have no idea what you may have in my garage. I also need to get some of the art I've had hanging in your house. They are things that were from my Dad's house and I am not ready to part with them yet."
I sit and patiently wait for his game plan. But nothing comes.
A few hours later I decide to play tough.
"My sister has offered to drive with me to your house just to get this over with."
That gets his attention. I am sure he knows Charlotte would disembowel him on sight.
"No. Please stop," he writes.
"Well I'm not hearing any other alternative plans."
He writes that he'll mail my things on Saturday. And asks if that is soon enough.
I reply that yes, it is soon enough and I will do the same with his things.
And then, considering that is apparently the last order of business, I simply write, "Goodbye."
And as though he's insulted, he writes, "Nice."
And I am wild.
"I don't think you are in a position to judge my ability to communicate!"
"You vanish. You don't call. You don't answer. You don't text. You don't reply to texts. You just walk out. At least I had the courtesy to say goodbye. NICE!"
And then nothing.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
A Dose of Reality
I am swinging on that thread of hope all through the day and it is good for me. I am starving for contact with Scott and it was the familiar note I'd hope he'd strike again.
But on the drive home, as I plan to call him, I get the sinking feeling that my instincts were right from the start. That I really have been kidding myself. The text was friendly. It did not smack of anything more than that. After days of silence, at a minimum, there should have been a "Love you," or a "XOXO" somewhere.
I am nervous. I almost want to write down my delivery so that if he does answer the phone, I'd be prepared. I'd ask him how we got to this place where we're not talking. Are we through or are we just in a little puddle of some kind. What does he need from me? What would make it right?
I am greeted at the door by my jubilant daughter, Hil. She has just looked at the PowerSchool portal and final quarter grades have been posted. All As. Eight of them. Straight A Honor Roll! She is thrilled.
And just who does she want to call? Charlotte or course, and Scott.
She goes to the house phone and calls Scott.
She makes a face because it goes to voice mail.
She digs her phone out of her backpack and texts him.
"Hey, I just tried to call you! I got straight As!"
Within seconds he texts right back.
"Awesome!"
Hil brings me the phone and shows me. She is elated. "Mom, you should call him now. He has his phone. He just texted me."
And I explain to her that I won't call because he won't answer. He apparently does not want to talk to me, and to be honest, he did not answer her call from the house phone because he thought it was me calling. I have to face facts. He just does not want to talk right now.
The bright look of hope washes from her face. "It's okay, Mom. How about I paint your nails tonight?"
But on the drive home, as I plan to call him, I get the sinking feeling that my instincts were right from the start. That I really have been kidding myself. The text was friendly. It did not smack of anything more than that. After days of silence, at a minimum, there should have been a "Love you," or a "XOXO" somewhere.
I am nervous. I almost want to write down my delivery so that if he does answer the phone, I'd be prepared. I'd ask him how we got to this place where we're not talking. Are we through or are we just in a little puddle of some kind. What does he need from me? What would make it right?
I am greeted at the door by my jubilant daughter, Hil. She has just looked at the PowerSchool portal and final quarter grades have been posted. All As. Eight of them. Straight A Honor Roll! She is thrilled.
And just who does she want to call? Charlotte or course, and Scott.
She goes to the house phone and calls Scott.
She makes a face because it goes to voice mail.
She digs her phone out of her backpack and texts him.
"Hey, I just tried to call you! I got straight As!"
Within seconds he texts right back.
"Awesome!"
Hil brings me the phone and shows me. She is elated. "Mom, you should call him now. He has his phone. He just texted me."
And I explain to her that I won't call because he won't answer. He apparently does not want to talk to me, and to be honest, he did not answer her call from the house phone because he thought it was me calling. I have to face facts. He just does not want to talk right now.
The bright look of hope washes from her face. "It's okay, Mom. How about I paint your nails tonight?"
Monday, December 3, 2012
Two Days and a Butt Dial Later
"OK, I can do this, " I tell myself.
I drive home without calling Scott. I would normally call as soon as I'd reached the downside of the bridge when I'd be sure not to lose the call over the water. Not tonight.
I put on a brave face with the kids. I have introduced the idea that Scott and I may be heading for a crossroads, but realize that it is happening to them as much as it is happening to me and I need to be sensitive. Like my nerves could be any more exposed.
I make dinner. I post musings on Facebook. I pack lunches. I obsessively check my phone every two minutes for missed calls or texts. Of course there are none.
I toss and turn through the night and push on through election day. I vote, I go to work, I distract myself to the best of my ability.
I check my phone throughout election night, keeping one eye on the election returns and one eye on my text message page. The returns are far less disappointing.
Wednesday morning arrives and I am convinced that it has some magical meaning. Because my friends predict he'd call today, I am hopeful he will. They clearly know more about everything than I do.
I drive to work, and as I get out of my car, it happens.
I hear ringing.
No, my phone is not ringing for me to answer it. It is dialing out.
I look inside my purse where I have just thrown my phone and see that it is lit...and OMG ---
I AM CALLING SCOTT!!!!
Nooooooooooo!!!! I do not want to call Scott! I want to give him space! Appear aloof! Go with the flow!
I reach in and end the call before it goes to voicemail.
And thinking quickly, I try to recover. And probably overdo it.
I text. Like any hapless moron would.
"Sorry. Butt dialed you getting out of my car."
And I am immediately filled with regret. Is there an un-send button?
One of two things will happen. He will reply something completely benign and non-committal like "OK" or absolutely nothing. Both will kill me for sure. I'll be dead before the parking garage elevator hits the ground floor.
My phone dings. The moment of truth.
"No problem. Have a good day. Stay warm."
WTF?
I text back, almost hopeful. "You too. Chat later?"
And nothing.
I drive home without calling Scott. I would normally call as soon as I'd reached the downside of the bridge when I'd be sure not to lose the call over the water. Not tonight.
I put on a brave face with the kids. I have introduced the idea that Scott and I may be heading for a crossroads, but realize that it is happening to them as much as it is happening to me and I need to be sensitive. Like my nerves could be any more exposed.
I make dinner. I post musings on Facebook. I pack lunches. I obsessively check my phone every two minutes for missed calls or texts. Of course there are none.
I toss and turn through the night and push on through election day. I vote, I go to work, I distract myself to the best of my ability.
I check my phone throughout election night, keeping one eye on the election returns and one eye on my text message page. The returns are far less disappointing.
Wednesday morning arrives and I am convinced that it has some magical meaning. Because my friends predict he'd call today, I am hopeful he will. They clearly know more about everything than I do.
I drive to work, and as I get out of my car, it happens.
I hear ringing.
No, my phone is not ringing for me to answer it. It is dialing out.
I look inside my purse where I have just thrown my phone and see that it is lit...and OMG ---
I AM CALLING SCOTT!!!!
Nooooooooooo!!!! I do not want to call Scott! I want to give him space! Appear aloof! Go with the flow!
I reach in and end the call before it goes to voicemail.
And thinking quickly, I try to recover. And probably overdo it.
I text. Like any hapless moron would.
"Sorry. Butt dialed you getting out of my car."
And I am immediately filled with regret. Is there an un-send button?
One of two things will happen. He will reply something completely benign and non-committal like "OK" or absolutely nothing. Both will kill me for sure. I'll be dead before the parking garage elevator hits the ground floor.
My phone dings. The moment of truth.
"No problem. Have a good day. Stay warm."
WTF?
I text back, almost hopeful. "You too. Chat later?"
And nothing.
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